Sleep and Food Deprivation
by RainFlower3004
Summary: Five times Sherlock didn't eat and/or sleep and one time he did both at the same time, A.K.A. Five times John tried to get Sherlock to eat and/or sleep and one time he succeeded (though it was rather unexpected and not that much of his doing).


_Summary: Five times Sherlock didn't eat and/or sleep and one time he did both at the same time. A.K.A. Five times John tried to get Sherlock to eat and/or sleep and one time he succeeded (though it was rather unexpected and not that much of his doing)._

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**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. **

**Warnings: Brief mention of kidnapped children. Oh, and flat mates hell-bent on getting *someone* to sleep/eat. Besides that? Nope, not really. **

**Author's note:** Right. Okay, let's keep this short and sweet. So this is a one-shot of the 'Five times and one time' variety (obviously). It's my first time trying my hand at something like this, so I hope I didn't mess this up. Oh, and apologies to any Twilight fans for the slightly negative light in which the book may be (briefly) portrayed. No offence intended to anyone! *ducks in time to evade flying objects from enraged mob*

Anyway, on with the story!

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**1**

"Sherlock, how long have you been up?"

A non-committal grunt came from the teetering pile of books on the kitchen table.

John sighed, yawning slightly as he walked round to where Sherlock sat, half-slumped on the table. His flat mate was currently on a case which involved him having to pore through twelve copies of dictionaries, a copy of Pride and Prejudice, Macbeth, Hamlet and good Lord, was that Twilight? Apparently, the murderer had a fetish for leaving clues that had to do with various different books.

A real charming bookworm, that one.

"You've been up all night, haven't you?" John asked, staring accusingly at the Sherlock-shaped lump currently sprawled all over the kitchen table.

One glance at the numerous bags under Sherlock's eyes, the rather dishevelled state of his curly hair and the slight dent on his cheek (it didn't take a consulting detective to tell that it was made by being pressed against the hard wooden table for quite a long period of time) told John all he needed to know.

Lifting his head with some effort, Sherlock stared bleary-eyed at his flat mate who was currently attempting to drag him off to bed (to rest, of course! But people already talked enough about the two of them so whatever… Correction somehow served to cement their stubborn beliefs further into their idiotic minds.)

"But Jaaawn! I need to catch that murderer!" he all but whined.

John sighed, still tugging at the sleeve of his flat mate's dressing gown.

"You can do that _**after**_ you've had some proper rest! Come on Sherlock, just a short nap," John coaxed.

But Sherlock wasn't really even listening to what John had to say. He was muttering something along the lines of "Where did that reference about sparkly vampires come from? That was from the last message the murderer left behind!" and looking rather lost, eyes darting about like a madman. He looked like he was about to lose it.

Taking pity on his bordering-on-manic, sleep-deprived friend, John handed over a thick book with a mainly black cover wordlessly. Sherlock sniffed (yes, he actually sniffed!) at the book suspiciously before apparently deeming the smell acceptable, proceeding to pore over it, all the while muttering, "Sparkly vampires? How the hell are such creatures of the night even sparkly?"

John shook his head, lips pursed in exasperation. He supposed he should go make some tea and perhaps some toast for the both of them. Sherlock's would most likely remain untouched but on the off-chance that he actually decided to eat it… Well. Besides, there was always the option of force-feeding his flat mate.

**2**

"Sherlock, I've got some Chinese take-away from that shop down the street. You know, the one that you actually ate and found it border-line tolerable?" John called out as he stepped into the flat.

He squinted in the dim lighting of the flat, taking a few moments before he located his flat mate sprawled out on the sofa in his customary dressing gown, fingers steepled in his signature "I'm-thinking-so-go-away" pose.

"Come on, at least one bite?" John tried again, waving the take-away box to and fro under Sherlock's nose in a vain attempt to entice him to eat something.

All he got in reply was an annoyed, somewhat patronising look that said "I'm on a case, John. I don't eat on a case." The scary thing was, John could actually imagine the exact tone and pitch of voice Sherlock would use while throwing out those two sentences. That said a lot about the alarming frequency which Sherlock tossed out that excuse.

John mentally planned out his options:** a)** He could eat both portions and not waste any food (but possibly vomit due to over-eating), **b)** He could throw away Sherlock's portion right away, or **c)** He could put Sherlock's portion into the refrigerator and hope that it would miraculously disappear by tomorrow morning.

He chose the third option, as per usual. He really didn't know why he bothered getting this deducting machine – er, brilliant idiot of a flat mate food anyway if that was the fate that befallen any sort of foodstuff presented to Sherlock while on a case.

**3**

Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept for the past three days. His excuse was, as always, that he was on a case. Well, that and the explanation that his body was merely transport. John had to physically restrain himself from punching his flat mate when the words "My body is just transport" passed from Sherlock's lips for the tenth time since the case started.

_(Oh, sometimes John swore that Sherlock said that to convince himself as much as it was to convince John.) _

John was getting desperate/frustrated enough to try punching his flat mate to knock him out (so he could sleep/stay unconscious for a short period of time which was as close as one could get for Sherlock) or perhaps stuff a piece of toast into Sherlock's mouth when he did that deep, almost-sensual gasp of his when he got a breakthrough on the case.

Passing by his pacing flat mate as he made a beeline for the teabags in the kitchen, John casually tossed out an idea, "Maybe his secretary did it?"

There was a moment of silence.

Then, "Oh!" came the deep, throaty gasp of revelation.

John didn't actually expect what he had said to be the key to a seemingly puzzling murder of a wealthy reclusive man, so he, of course, didn't have a piece of toast in hand to force-feed his open-mouthed flat mate. But to his credit, he did manage to grab one piece of toast (meant for Sherlock which was left untouched until now) and rush out of the kitchen at quite an admirably inhuman speed. However, needless to say, Sherlock's moment of revelation had already passed and thus, his originally wide-open mouth had snapped shut.

It would seem that John's moment of triumph was sorely short-lived.

Sherlock was already up in a flash, grabbing his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck while shouting for John to hurry up, they've got to go NOW! Sighing, John quickly scarfed down the piece of toast and still struggling with his shoes, staggered out of the flat behind his hyper-active, impatient flat mate.

_(Darn. But oh well. He did try. Maybe he'd be quicker next time.) _

It really seemed like John needed some sort of foodstuff in his hand at ready 24/7 just so he could wait for the right moment and ambush – er, feed his flat mate.

**4 **

John was pretty certain that between his military training and naturally patient/dogged nature, he could bloody well get his flat mate to eat/sleep or (let's not get our hopes up) both. He had observed that Sherlock practically lived on tea and maybe just the occasional scrap of toast during a case, tea being the only constant in his eating habits (or lack thereof). Hence, that was why John found himself in the kitchen one evening, trying to slip finely grounded sleeping pills into his flat mate's tea.

_(It was for a good reason, though, John kept reminding himself.) _

Sherlock was running himself ragged over the most recent case regarding kidnapped children.

_(John understood that cases with children involved as victims generally hit a nerve with Sherlock and he must admit, with himself too. However, that was still not good enough a reason to neglect his own body's needs to this extent because no reason in this world was ever good enough for a brilliant man like him to deprive himself of sleep like that, damn it!) _

Just as he was opening the packet containing the finely ground sleeping powder, Sherlock's muffled voice floated over from the living room, "Don't try to drug my tea, John. It simply isn't your style of doing things."

John almost dropped the packet in shock and it was thanks to his steady hands that none of the powder actually came tumbling out in one avalanche of white.

_(How the bloody hell did Sherlock know what he was going to do? But then again, this was the man who could tell your entire life story from the scratches on your mobile phone or from the crease on your shirt sleeves so it wasn't really that big of a surprise.) _

"I wasn't going to! Geez…" John managed to choke out a retort that sounded mildly affronted _(He would never do such a thing! Well, except he almost did, but no one had to know that) _but from the rather disbelieving snort that he heard, it was safe to say that Sherlock was not the least bit fooled.

**5**

"Sherlock, let's stop here and get a quick bite first."

"No, I'm not hungry. We have a murderer to catch!"

"What if I say that I'm hungry?"

An exasperated snort, then Sherlock snapped, "If you're indeed so hungry, just go grab something quickly and eat it while we walk then."

John sighed. Sherlock could be really quite dense sometimes when it came to double meanings and speech with hidden layers.

_(Oh well, might as well grab something to eat while they tailed the murderer.) _

Several moments later, John emerged from the café with a sandwich in hand. If Sherlock noticed that it remained untouched as they resumed following the murderer, he didn't comment.

_(John was actually pretty sure that Sherlock, like a bloodhound that came upon a scent, was probably too focused on the case to care if John was saving his sandwich for late or not. However, he knew exactly why he didn't eat it. He was saving it for when the right moment presented itself.) _

After two wrong turns, one false alarm and one long chase through numerous alleys, they finally caught up with the rather desperate-looking bald man. Sherlock was looking rather pleased with himself despite his pale complexion and swaying from side to side as he stood by John, the murderer now in handcuffs and in the hands of one DI Lestrade.

That was when John struck.

With one hand brandishing the sandwich like a murder weapon, John all but pounced onto Sherlock, pushing the food towards his flat mate's mouth. However, Sherlock managed to clamp his mouth resolutely shut throughout the ensuing struggle. The rather undignified struggle ended when said unfortunate sandwich sailed out of John's grasp and landed smack against someone's head with a "Thwack!" while its insides spilled everywhere. That someone in question, being one rather surprised and annoyed-looking Anderson.

John drew himself to his full height, trying to preserve whatever scrap of dignity he had left. After all, he did just pounce onto his flat mate in front of a fair number of officers (see, a rather shell-shocked Lestrade, an open-mouthed Donovan, several other surprised officers and one ticked-off Anderson with lettuce adorning his hair). Though not for the reasons one might think, but still…

In other words, Operation: Force-feed Flatmate by Surprise Ambush was an utter failure.

**+1 **

To think that after all the hard work he had put in during the past few times to get Sherlock to eat, in the end, all that was necessary was a string of successful cases for Sherlock to be dragged, albeit somewhat reluctantly, out to dinner at Angelo's.

John was feeling rather pleased with himself for his accomplishment (alright, so maybe it was because their current case wasn't particularly of interest to Sherlock) as he dug into his plate of pasta with all the gusto of a famished man. Sherlock, who had been positively wolfing down his plate of pasta just mere moments ago, was now picking rather listlessly at the individual strands with his fork. He rested his chin on one loosely-curled fist while he proceeded to create a mini whirlpool in his plate with a fork in his other hand. If John hadn't been so hungry and intent on cleaning up every last morsel of pasta on his plate, he would have noticed Sherlock blinking more often than normal and that his flat mate's head drooped dangerously close to his plate of food, only to jerk back but droop ever so closer again.

As fate would have it, John let out a muttered swear in a shock-tinged voice as his flat mate fell face-flat into his ravaged plate of pasta with a "plop!"

John's first thought was of how hard it would be to clean out the garish tomato sauce from Sherlock's mop of messy curls.

His next thought?

"Bloody hell, Sherlock doesn't sleep or eat like a normal person during cases but decides to do both right now. Right in his pasta."

John sighed. It looked like he would have to bodily carry his flat mate into the cab (there was still the matter of getting a cab without Sherlock's seemingly magical powers of cab hailing), explain patiently to the shocked cab driver that no, that wasn't blood in Sherlock's hair so don't be alarmed, then carry Sherlock (again) out of the cab and into the flat and finally, the tedious task of waking the man to wash the sodding sauce out of his sodding hair before he could go and collapse – er, sleep in his bed.

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

_(Well, but at least he finally got Sherlock to eat and sleep, even if he didn't exactly picture it to happen quite like this.)_

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Gahh kind of seemed to lose some steam at the end and instead of writing a longer part, it ended up being short. Oh well. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this short lil' piece. Don't forget to review! *winkwinknudgenudge*

Cheers,

Rainflower


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